


the hand that held my wrist was battered on one knuckle

by fallencrest



Category: Justified
Genre: Alcohol, Child Abuse, Daddy Issues, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-18
Updated: 2012-04-18
Packaged: 2017-11-03 21:38:24
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/386238
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fallencrest/pseuds/fallencrest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post-<i>Slaughterhouse</i>, Art suggests that Tim talk to Raylan about Arlo, given that Tim and Raylan have less-than-desirable relationships with their fathers in common. So they talk and they get drunk and Tim's couch isn't the worst place to sleep in Lexington.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the hand that held my wrist was battered on one knuckle

**Author's Note:**

> Trigger warnings for: allusions to child abuse - though nothing worse than is implied in canon - and allusions to past homophobic comments.

They’re more than halfway to drunk when Tim says “he’s a real piece of shit, isn’t he?” and maybe this was the whole reason for this conversation, this going out to some Lexington bar, drinking in a corner-booth but Raylan still doesn’t know what Tim’s talking about, hazy with drink as he is.

“Who is?” Raylan asks, narrow-eyed, whiskey tumbler cocked to the side, every bit Raylan fucking Givens, ridiculous cowboy caricature. 

Tim would laugh about it, can’t help but crack a grin at least but he knows this conversation’s about to go south and fast. “Arlo,” is all he says in reply, not ‘your father’, ‘your daddy’, or anything else.

“Oh, he’s always been like that.” Raylan says, still all lazy drawl, cocksure, unperturbed. 

“He always been angling to shoot you?” Tim can’t help but ask. It’s why they’re here anyway, for the most part. Not that he doesn’t enjoy getting Raylan drunk for its own sake - he does: half the time it’s fucking funny, the rest Raylan’s just stupidly captivating that way he is, and he always ends up passed out on Tim’s couch anyway and that view tends to be more than worth the hangover.

“Well, this isn’t the first time and well you know it,” Raylan says, and, Christ, if he isn’t still smiling.

“Must be tough.” Tim says, knowing it, and not letting himself smile back at Raylan, tempting though it is with Raylan’s charm offensive in full swing.

“Oh, you know how it is,” Raylan says, all wry humour. He isn’t even drinking, just swilling the bit of liquid in the bottom of his glass.

“Not specifically.”

“Your daddy never tried to shoot you?” Raylan asks, still phrasing it like it’s a joke, like it’s normal.

“Never that.” And Raylan stops then, stops swilling the glass, stops smiling, downs his bourbon and reaches for the bottle to fill them both up. And they stop chatting shit, stop beating round the bush and start telling the stories they normally keep to themselves: about belt-buckle bruises and crying mothers and words that should’ve gone unsaid. There’s still an edge of a joke in it, maybe a hint of competition, trading off one terrible thing for another. They get drunk enough that it doesn’t get too sentimental though, drunk enough that half the time they trail off at the end of the sentence, leaving what they meant to say unsaid but still, somehow, understood. 

They finish off the bottle, then they stumble out the bar, Raylan saying “I know Art put you up to this but thanks, I guess,” like he’s suddenly sentimental or something.

“Yeah, you’re gonna thank me when you wake up in agony on account of my couch.”

“I like your couch.” 

“Sure you do.” 

They’re clinging onto each other as if it’ll make them walk straight instead of just slowing them down. They’ll both claim that they aren’t that drunk and it’s probably at least sort of true but Tim’s got all loud and declamatory the way he does when he’s had a few and Raylan’s alternating between quiet and talking real slow which says they’re at least drunk enough not to be too self-aware. 

Tim’s just let them both into his place and is saying all that standard stuff about how Raylan’s welcome to help himself to whatever, when he notices something funny about the way Raylan’s looking at him. He’s about to ask what’s up when Raylan kisses him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt down near the back of his hips as he does so, tugging hard enough that Tim thinks it might just be that Raylan was about to take a fall. 

Tim opens his mouth and kisses back a little without thinking, settling his own hands on Raylan’s back as if just to steady himself, too, but it doesn’t last long before Raylan’s pulling back a little and Tim’s following suit, hands beating a hasty retreat back to his sides as Raylan’s grip loosens. 

It’s sort of awkwardly silent ‘til Tim says, “and I’m guessing that was just because of what I said, ’bout my daddy saying those things, when he found out about-” 

Only Raylan smiles and says, “No, that, that was ’cause you’re so damn pretty,” before Tim can finish, sounding just genuinely the way Raylan always does - the perfect southern gentleman come to steal away your daughter’s heart. 

It takes Tim way longer than it should do, ‘til long after Raylan’s got the hell out of his personal space, to process that. 

It takes him even longer to realise that things might have gone different, if he’d only closed that gap again and kissed Raylan back like he meant it. Actually, that bit he doesn’t realise ‘til some time the next day, when he’s hung-over and Raylan’s long gone. And it’s not ’til about a week after that that Tim gets up the nerve to ask Raylan out for a drink again with no other motive this time than seeing whether he can get Raylan to kiss him again.


End file.
